


Epiphany

by peggin



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 23:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7291315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggin/pseuds/peggin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian's thoughts after the final scene in Episode 202.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

> Between 2004 and 2007, I wrote a number of short QAF fics on livejournal, and I've decided I want to post them here. I wrote this one in October 2007.

You lie in the bed, tired, sated, feeling better than you have in weeks. You wrap your arms around his sleeping body, drinking in every breath he takes, breathing in his scent. You're afraid that, if you go to sleep, you'll wake up and discover this past hour had never happened. You never expected to have a chance to hold him in your arms again, and you regret the fact that, all the times you held him in your arms before, you never allowed yourself to appreciate how special it was; how special he was.

He shifts in your arms and sighs; you pull his body a little closer to yours and press a kiss against the scar that mars his otherwise flawless head. A shudder wracks your body as you think about the moment when you had come so close to losing him forever. You'd been living in that moment for the last two months, replaying it in your mind a million times, never being able to push it aside for more than a minute or so at a time.

It was better now; you could even pin-point the exact moment it had gotten better. Just an hour or so earlier, he'd put his hand against your chest and discovered the once-white silk scarf, now stained with his blood, that for the last two months you'd been wearing against your skin like some modern-day, high class version of sackcloth and ashes. He'd pulled the scarf off of you, tossed it aside, kissed you, and told you that he wanted you inside of him. At that moment, the deep psychic pain that had been your constant companion for the last two months had – not disappeared, you suspected it would never disappear entirely, but – diminished. He'd taken away the blood-stained scarf and, with it, had taken away a good deal of your pain.

You wish you could take away his pain as easily.

After he'd tossed aside the scarf, you'd done what he requested... and more. You'd kissed him, caressed him, entered his body in a way that was almost reverent. As many times as you had fucked what had to be thousands of different men, as many different ways as you had fucked them, there was something about that moment that was different from anything you'd ever experienced before. It occurred to you that, as many times as you'd fucked him before -- so many times you'd lost count – you'd never actually made love to him. To anyone.

Made love. You'd never understood what people meant by that term. You'd always thought it was just some juvenile fantasy term people used to pretty up and romanticize getting their rocks off. But in this past hour, you'd discovered that it wasn't that at all. It was... exactly what it described. When you'd kissed him after the prom, you remember asking yourself if that was what love felt like. Just an hour ago, when he took the scarf away and kissed you, you were sure that what you felt had to be love. You realize now that what you had felt then had been nothing. Not compared to what you feel now. This past hour, holding him, kissing him, touching him, listening to his sighs and gasps and moans, caring more about his needs and his pleasure than about your own... it had built something inside of you. _Making love_ is exactly what it had been, because now, for the first time in your life, you really understand what love is.

You want to stay here like this, holding him in your arms, for as long as you can. You try to stay awake -- you want this moment, this feeling, to last forever -- but it's a fight you can't win. The last thought that occurs to you as you drift off to sleep is that, in a way you never could have predicted, that white silk scarf had done exactly what you'd planned for it to do when you'd bought it. You'd bought the scarf planning to use it to achieve the best orgasm of your life. Just this past hour, he'd taken the scarf away from you, and given you exactly that.


End file.
